


Metaphorical Dumplings

by Taricha



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 07:59:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13993959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taricha/pseuds/Taricha
Summary: The man in front of Hattori’s shop was a witcher, that much was clear from the golden eyes and the medallion around his neck – but one of his scabbards was empty. What was a witcher without a silver sword? How was he to make enough money to pay for one, if he lacked the tools for his trade?





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The witcher raised his eyebrows, then visibly shrugged, and Hattori wondered what made a man so cautious he was loathe to even give up his own name. “Name’s Gaetan.”

The man in front of Hattori’s shop was a witcher, that much was clear from the golden eyes and the medallion around his neck – but one of his scabbards was empty, and the medallion wasn’t quite like Geralt’s. A cat head – Hattori wondered what, if any, significance that held.

Other differences were more apparent – this witcher’s hair was brown, shaved close to his skull in a manner far more efficient than Geralt’s showier white locks. He carried himself differently, his body striding towards Hattori’s shop with rapid, guarded movements that lacked the White Wolf’s lazy confidence. Maybe it was the missing sword – Hattori didn’t imagine he quite understood the worth of a silver sword to a witcher, but he did know the hungry look Geralt got when presented with a new one.

There was an angry, puffy red scar across the man’s eye – did all witchers have such dramatic facial scars? Did they not know how to duck, or was it simply a point of pride?

“Stop staring,” the witcher snapped.

“My apologies,” Hattori said automatically, shrinking in on himself. It was a hard habit to break, being the dumpling-maker, the worrier, the imposter – but that was no longer. Now he was Hattori, the best swordsmith in Novigrad.

He lifted his chin, and straightened his back. “You are only the second witcher to ever grace this shop – “

“Second?” the witcher interrupted. “Who was the other?”

“Em, a friend – Geralt.” What was his last name again? Oh – “Of Rivia.”

The witcher’s face showed no reaction. “You make swords for him?”

“Yes, I have made several swords for him – silver and steel both, and crossbow bolts, and –“

“Good,” the witcher said, and set a stuffed coin purse on Hattori’s bench. “This enough for a silver blade?”

Hesitantly, Hattori lifted the sack of coins and looked inside. Crowns – too few of them.

He opened his mouth to say the coin wasn’t enough, and the witcher’s gaze stuttered away from his, flitting down to the bench, then the forge, a fast-tracked evasion that countered the expressionless mask on the witcher’s face.

Hattori looked hard at the witcher for a moment, his eyes taking in the details he hadn’t seen before. He watched the man shift his weight back and forth like the ground beneath him wasn’t steady, strong arms tucked protectively over his chest. The leather of his jerkin was chafed thin across the front, and there was a ragged slice in the fabric of his pants that had been poorly stitched back together with a different color of thread. Deep circles shadowed his eyes, and judging by the rust stain on the witcher’s neck, it had been a while since he’d slept any way other than rough.

What was a witcher without a silver sword? How was he to make enough money to pay for one, if he lacked the tools for his trade?

The bag wasn’t that far short, Hattori resolved – not a loss he couldn’t make up quickly by over-charging the local Redanian quartermaster by a few coins here and there. And a witcher had once helped him out when he’d lacked supplies – it would be wrong to not pay the favor back.

“It’s enough,” Hattori said firmly, and closed the coin bag. “Do you have any particulars? Pommel preferences, perhaps? Or a design you’d like me to follow?” Geralt kept bringing him new designs, which was a little insulting – Éibhear Hattori was an artist, a craftsman, he knew how to make a good sword. But Geralt never complained about the improvements Hattori made to his out-of-date designs, so the elf did not complain about the incessant new schematics either.

The witcher shrugged. “As long as it has a sharp end.”

Hattori shook his head, for he wasn’t about to spend days making a sword only for the owner to come complain about unspecified details later. “Come on,” he cajoled. “You must have some preferences – how long the blade should be, the shape of the guard… do you want the blade straight, or curved? A finger guard? Leather or metal grip?”

The witcher snorted, which pleased Hattori. Perhaps the witcher was not as immutable as he seemed.

“Here,” the witcher said, and pulled out his steel sword, placing it on the bench with a gentleness that belied his earlier seeming lack of care. “The pommel – I like this pommel, but it’s…”

“It’s too long,” Hattori said immediately, picking the blade up carefully and feeling out its balance. “The pommel is too long, the knuckle guard is too small for your hand.” He hesitated, not wishing to insult the man beyond his limitations, but the witcher merely watched him with curiosity.

“How do you fight?” Hattori asked, emboldened. “Are you – do you go for powerful movements, or for speed?”

“Speed and precision,” the witcher replied, as if he was quoting from a textbook.

Hattori swung the blade around, feeling the way it sliced through the air. It was of decent craftmanship, but the edges were nicked and scored – some kind of corrosive agent, perhaps, or maybe some of that ridiculously toxic oil that he knew Geralt insisted on rubbing his sword with. “This blade is too slow – I’ll make your new one thinner. With a leather-wrapped grip – so that you have more flexibility in your hold.”

Some of the designs Geralt kept bringing him would be a good starting point, loathe as he was to admit it. Hattori could make better. He would make better – he would make a sword that made this witcher’s movements sing.

The sword smith gently placed the weapon back onto the bench. “Give me two days.”

The witcher nodded, placing the sword back in his scabbard with a single smooth motion.

“Wait – what’s your name?”

The witcher raised his eyebrows, then visibly shrugged, and the swordsmith wondered what made a man so cautious he was loathe to even give up his own name. “Name’s Gaetan.”

Feeling bold, Hattori extended a hand. After a second, Gaetan shook it. Their hands were callused in slightly different places – one from swords, and one from a hammer. Gaetan’s grip was strong, and his palm was warm without being sweaty. There was a scar across the man’s thumb knuckle, pale pink against the dark tan of his skin and too ragged to be from a sword. Teeth, perhaps?

Belatedly, Hattori realized he was still holding onto the witcher’s hand, for a time that had stretched just a second too long. He let go, covering himself with a forced customer service smile. “I’m Éibhear. Pleased to meet you, Gaetan.”

The witcher’s expression was inscrutable, and there was a flash of habitual panic in Hattori’s gut – _he knows, he knows_. But the witcher didn’t comment, didn’t recoil. “I’ll be by in a few days to pick up my sword,” he said with a nod, and left the shop and its keeper to sweat in the hot summer sun.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll keep an eye out for anything interesting,” the witcher promised, amusement evident in the warm timber of his voice. “I’ll… see you soon, Éibhear.”

The witcher arrived early, when the sunlight hadn’t yet crested over the buildings surrounding the shop and the air was still too cool to hold the normal reek of sewage-stained city air. The world was beginning to wake up - local merchants and farmers were hurriedly sweeping their tent floors and batting away last night’s lingering drunks, trying to get ready before their customers came to market. 

Hattori was still awake, having spent most of the night polishing, sharpening, and perfecting the sword until it gleamed like it was bathed in torchlight. At the last moment he’d decided to acid-etch the guard, a silly decision that would add nothing to the blade but artistry, but he was a craftsman now and artistry was his calling. The pride of the small act left him too jittery to sleep, and so he was still up, sipping on a cup of tea, weary but pleased with his own work. To be able to indulge in the forge once more, to get lost in the design and the rhythm of the work – he was amazed he’d ever gone so long without it.

Gaetan was quiet as he approached, but was preceded by the angry grumbles of a merchant snapping at the witcher to get away from his goods. The swordsmith narrowed his eyes at the sound – the merchant in question had done the same thing to Hattori himself many times, as if the presence of an elf would keep the townsfolk from buying the man’s pathetic cache of wilted vegetables and fruit. Gaetan gave the man a sneer but little other reaction, and Hattori wondered how many times he’d been similarly dismissed. 

“Good morning, Éibhear,” the witcher said. 

Hattori glared at the merchant before smiling at the witcher. “Good morning Gaetan.” 

The blood stains were gone from the man’s skin today, but he smelled ever so slightly of buckthorn, like he’d washed up in the river rather than a tub. Hattori wondered if he was too poor for an inn, or if they had turned him away. Perhaps he should send the witcher to the tavern where Geralt stayed when he was in town – but then, the witcher seemed down on his luck, perhaps he had simply decided to forego the expense, and such a suggestion would then be rude in the extreme.

“Is my sword ready?”

“Hm?” 

Gaetan cocked his head to the side. “My sword? Is it ready?”

“Oh,” Hattori said. Perhaps he shouldn’t have stayed up so late after all, it was making him foolish. “Yes, yes – just a moment.” 

He presented the sword to the witcher without ceremony, his weariness mellowing out his pride in the sword until it was simply a warm glow. It not the fanciest sword he had ever made, but he was sure it was one of the best – now that he had seen so many of Geralt’s ridiculous designs, he knew exactly how to tailor a sword to a witcher’s needs. 

Gaetan’s face gave little away as he held the sword. It fit him, as Hattori had known it would – he didn’t need to bring out the measuring tape to size up a man, not this long into his career. Light gleamed off the flat of the blade, and Hattori could see the witcher’s cat eyes constrict in the sudden glare. It was obvious the moment that Gaetan caught sight of the etching, however – his lips parted slightly, and he pulled the guard up for a closer look.

“That’s a good likeness,” he remarked, holding up his medallion for a comparison.

Hattori smiled, pleased by the reaction. “School of the Cat – is that right? I don’t know much about witchering,” he admitted, “but Geralt has given me many designs with that logo.”

Gaetan’s smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Has he.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” the swordsmith said, not sure what he’d said wrong. “He comes across them, now and again, brings them to me and asks me to make them – he’s a bit of a hoarder, truth be told, I don’t know what he does with the number of weapons I make him, he can’t be breaking them that often – “

“Do you know where he gets the designs?” The words were blank, drained of all warmth.

“No. He finds them places – caves and things, I believe,” Hattori said, though it sounded ridiculous as he said it – who would leave schematics for witcher gear in caves? Not that Geralt would be stealing them, of course – though, he had stolen supplies for Hattori, hadn’t he? 

“I’m sorry - should I not have…” Hattori pointed at the etching.

“It’s fine,” Gaetan said, not looking at the black emblem sketched on the guard. A small muscle worked in his jaw, twitching beneath the skin. “It’s a good sword.”

“I aim to please,” Hattori said cautiously.  
Gaetan balanced the sword one more time, then slid it into his scabbard. It fit, as Hattori had intended it to, and he was pleased to see that the base of the pommel looked different enough from the steel sword that should Gaetan ever need to, he could feel the difference between them readily. 

“Thanks,” Gaetan said, and then, to Hattori’s surprise, reached out his hand. 

Hattori took it, gripping the witcher’s hand tightly. “I’m glad it serves. Do let me know if it needs adjustment, or repair, or if you need anything else. Crossbow bolts. Or a crossbow, perhaps.”

Gaetan’s smile was small, amused, and Hattori felt his full body flush at the sight. “I will.” The witcher glanced at his hand, which Hattori was still clutching.

“Of course,” Hattori said, dropping the witcher’s hand like it was on fire. He was so distracted by fighting against his embarrassment that he almost missed it as the witcher replied something to the effect that he would return, should he need something. 

But the man was a witcher – who knew when the path would take him back to Novigrad? The sudden thought was surprisingly intolerable. “Um,” Hattori said, and then before the man could turn away he sputtered out, “crafting supplies!”

Gaetan’s brows furrowed. “Huh?”

“Erm,” Hattori said, and the tips of his ears felt superheated, “I need more. Crafting supplies. Acid, specifically. I’m interested, if you find any. I’d buy it.” 

This time, Gaetan’s smile wasn’t hidden away, spreading openly across the other man’s features. Something hot twisted in Hattori’s stomach at the sight of it.

“I’ll keep an eye out for anything interesting,” the witcher promised, amusement evident in the warm timber of his voice. “I’ll… see you soon, Éibhear.”

Hattori smiled weakly and watched the witcher walk away, feeling entirely aflutter from the exchange and oh, oh no. Well, he supposed he should have known when he’d stayed up all night etching a bloody cat emblem into metal for no extra money – he was generous, but not that generous. 

The smith wiped his now-sweaty palms off on his apron, wondering how many centuries would have to pass before he would stop making a fool of himself over the sight of a handsome man’s smile.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You offering to oil my sword for me?” the witcher drawled, an eyebrow raised. “Awfully kind of you.”

Hattori was working on getting the dents out of a shield when he next saw the cat witcher. It was late in the evening, the sun just setting and the cool air whipping away his sweat and buffering him against the heat of the forge – the perfect time for smith work, though the neighbors sometimes complained of the racket.

A small burlap bag dropped unceremoniously on the bench beside him, and Hattori lurched back, holding the hammer up defensively.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” the witcher said, but the smirk at the edge of his mouth said otherwise. “I said your name a few times, but you were engrossed in your work.”

“Oh,” the elf said, blinking and lowering the hammer. “It’s you.”

He looked better – clean, this time, and his hair and beard were recently shaved. There was a new scabbed-over nick to his cheek, but in the two months since Hattori had seen the witcher the puffy red scar near his eye had faded to a smoother, settled pink. His armor was different, too – thicker, less worn, and the leather was dyed deep blue.

“Good evening Éibhear,” Gaetan said, still looking at him with amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Good evening, Gaetan,” Hattori responded, determined to be less of an idiot this time. “How’s the sword working out for you?”

“It’s killed a wyvern, a nest of insectoids and a few dozen drowners, and the edge is still sharp. You make a damned good sword.”

Gaetan’s eyes were so much darker in this lingering low light, the viper-like pupil dilated until the yellow was nothing but a little rim around the edge. Unlike so many in this blasted, racist city, his eye contact was unwavering, and Hattori swallowed against a suddenly dry throat.

“That’s,” he said, trying not to stare, “that’s good. I’m glad. Do you, did you – should I adjust something? Or, does it need an edge? Oh, no, you just said… erm, I could,” he looked around helplessly for something of use to say. “I could oil it for you.”

“You offering to oil my sword for me?” the witcher drawled, an eyebrow raised. “Awfully kind of you.”

“Um,” Hattori said succinctly, wishing a sinkhole would open up underneath him immediately.

The witcher watched him squirm for a second, then had mercy and opened up the bag. “I brought you something.”

Hattori took the vial he was handed. A vibrant green fluid swirled within it.

“It’s acid extract,” Gaetan said. “From a giant centipede. Whoresons are damned hard to kill, and I figured it wasn’t all that common up here.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Hattori said, remembering now his hasty, desperate request to ensure he’d see the witcher again. “Yes. Right. Thank you! Erm, how much do I owe you?”

Gaetan shrugged. “Well, I was hoping I could convince you to use a little of it on my steel sword. Make it match.”

“Of course,” Hattori said. “I’d be happy to. Erm,” he looked at the shield he was supposed to have delivered by morning.

“It doesn’t need to be right now,” Gaetan said. “I’m in town for a few days. Got a contract guarding some merchants on their way back to Velen, but they have to do some trade first.”

“Oh,” Hattori said. “Well, in that case, I could take it and get it to you in two days, possibly. Would that, will you still be here?”

“Yeah,” Gaetan said, “that’ll work.” The witcher licked his lips, his gaze darting away from Hattori to rest on the shield. “What are you doing tonight?”

“That shield,” Hattori said, “though I don’t imagine it’ll take me too much longer.”

“Ah,” Gaetan said. “Well. I was thinking of getting some dinner at the NoWhere Inn. I hear they have good dumplings.”

Hattori scoffed. “Good dumplings? If you like soggy dough with mystery meat inside of them, then certainly. I know the chef, and I wouldn’t be too surprised if they’re stuffed with rat entrails.”

Gaetan raised his eyebrows. “Oh? That’s a shame.”

“It is,” Hattori agreed emphatically, waving his hands as he spoke. “It’s pure laziness, too – the daft man refuses to put his back into rolling the dough, so it’s too thick and never cooks evenly. If he would just spend an iota more effort – but what am I saying, they also water down their ale until it tastes like pond water.” He shook his head.

“I really had my heart set on dumplings, though,” Gaetan said.

Hattori was about to open his mouth and tell Gaetan that the Kingfisher offered passable fare when he paused, his brain catching up to the scenario. He looked suspiciously at the witcher, who just stood there blank-faced, seeming as innocent as a witcher could possibly be.

“Really.” Hattori narrowed his eyes, trying to look firm.

“Yeah.”

The witcher didn’t twitch a muscle, no matter how hard Hattori stared at him. Perhaps it was a side effect of those witcher mutations but the man’s acting was good – clearly, not a man to play dice with.

“Fine,” the elf said eventually, hoping he wasn’t reading the man incorrectly, “I will make you some. But only to save you from the foulness of Eindar’s food. I wouldn’t want you to get sick.”

The satisfied smirk belied Gaetan’s earlier straight face. “Great. I have really been craving some good,” his eyes flitted to Hattori’s mouth, “…dumplings.”

 _Oh,_ Hattori thought, a shiver of want running through him at the hot look on the witcher’s face. “Good,” he said, and cleared his throat. They were still in public, and he was a pariah enough as it was for the sole shape of his ears. “I, erm. I make the best.”

“I’m sure,” Gaetan said, his eyes dark, and then he stepped back for a second, let the air cool between them. “You still have to finish this shield first – do you need anything?”

Oh blast, he did have to finish the shield first, or he’d risk losing his contract. “Anything? For the shield?”

“Sure, though I was thinking for the dumplings.”

“Oh.” Were the dumplings not metaphorical? “Some yellow onion. And potatos – not from him, though.” He nodded his head at the cantankerous human merchant across the way. “Liable to poison us on purpose, that one. There’s a good merchant down the street. Oh, and garlic.”

“Alright,” Gaetan said. “You finish this shield. I’ll go pick up some food, and,” he looked the elf up and down in a manner so blatantly appraising that Hattori thought his clothing might burn off his body, “a few other supplies.”

“Ungh,” Hattori managed eloquently, grateful for the discretion provided by his thick leather apron.

Gaeten smiled fully at that, the expression crinkling the lines at the outsides of his eyes. “See you in a bit,” he promised, and disappeared.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was he really making dumplings? Perhaps he had misread this after all.

The next hour passed in a blur of nervous energy, and Hattori had to fix several misplaced hammer blows in addition to the initial crossbow damage he’d been tasked to repair. He did finish, though, and tucked the shield away, taking the chance to close down the shop front for the night before Gaetan’s return. Once the shop was closed, his apron dangling on its hook near the door and all the oil lamps in the house were lit, Hattori found himself at a loss. He flung himself into a chair, his hands drumming relentlessly on the kitchen table as he struggled to concentrate.   

Perhaps he should bathe? Not a full bath, he didn’t have time, Gaetan would be back any minute. The thought sent a shiver down his spine – he hadn’t met another man of like mind since he’d moved here, and hadn’t spent time with one since well before that either. Novigrad held many opportunities for a smith, but the omnipresent church had made it hard enough to be an elf, let alone one of his particular proclivities.

What if he… embarrassed himself? It had been a while, and Gaetan was… well. Hattori wondered if the sleeveless armor served any purpose other than to drive him to distraction.

Perhaps he ought to go upstairs and – oh no. Was his bed clean? He should change the sheets. And his clothing. And wipe his face, at the very least-

A knock at the door interrupted his frantically accumulating to-do list. Briefly, he wiped his face off with a towel, dismayed to find it come away black with the day’s soot and dirt. _Damn it all_.

Gathering his courage, he opened the door.

“They didn’t have garlic,” Gaetan said, pushing past him into the room. “I hope that doesn’t destroy your recipe.” He laid out his items on the table, and pulled out two large bottles. He handed one of them to Hattori – a bottle of pepper vodka, though gods only knew where the witcher had gotten it from.

Gaetan held up the other bottle, which appeared to be red wine. “I wasn’t sure what your palate was like, so I hedged my bets.”

“The vodka,” Hattori said immediately, then, “thank you. And, I have a little garlic left over, we should be fine.” Was he really making dumplings? Perhaps he had misread this after all.

Gaetan put the bottle of wine back down on the table. “Sounds good to me. Glasses?”

This was something he could do at least. Hattori pulled two ceramic mugs out of the cupboard, pulling the cork out of the vodka and pouring them both a healthy dose, handing a mug to Gaetan.

As he accepted the drink, Gaetan’s thumb stroked slowly, deliberately against the back of Hattori’s hand. His gaze was steady as Hattori glanced up from their hands, their eyes locking through the thick shroud of Gaetan’s lashes. Hattori wet his bottom lip with his tongue and watched as Gaetan’s eyes darkened, his eyes flickering down to linger on Hattori’s mouth.

Éibhear did not consider himself a particularly brave man, but today he mustered all the courage he possessed and pressed forward. He invaded the witcher’s space, taking the mug from Gaetan’s loose grasp and placing it on the table behind him, hearing the other man’s breathing speed up as he came closer. He was taller than the witcher, and broader in the shoulders, and he used his size to his advantage and crowded the witcher up against the table, gratified and goaded on by the hungry look in Gaetan’s eyes.

“Don’t stab me,” Hattori said, his voice resonating in the silence, and then he took Gaetan’s face in his hands and pressed their lips together.

“Fuck,” Gaetan whispered against his mouth, and then the witcher’s lips parted and Hattori shivered as the other man’s tongue flicked against his.

Hands pulled against his ass, clenching and tugging until Hattori was pressed up against the witcher from knee to neck, pushing the man up against the table, mugs rattling dangerously with the impact. Gaetan’s mouth was warm and lush, his lips softer than Hattori could have imagined – _had_ imagined, truth be told. He smelled like warm leather and ever so faintly of sweat, and the elf let himself sink into it, running his hands up along the witcher’s shadow of a beard.

Their hips shifted, and Hattori felt the hard line of Gaetan’s cock at the same time he felt Gaetan’s hissed intake of breath against his mouth. Hattori let go of the man’s face to better roll their hips together, gratified by the low groan the action elicited.

“Gods, Éibhear,” the man cursed, throwing his head back. Hattori took the action as an invitation to lick the sweat from the hollow of Gaetan’s neck.

“Get this off,” Gaetan said suddenly, pulling at Hattori’s shirt. “Come on, come on –“

Hattori leaned back. “I’m filthy,” he protested.

Gaetan’s eyes gleamed. “Fuck yeah you are,” he said appreciatively, and tugged Hattori’s shift up over his head, his obvious enthusiasm at the idea whisking away Hattori’s reflexive self-consciousness.

Shirt off, the witcher immediately wrestled the elf back in, fingers digging into Hattori’s back, sliding across sweat-slicked skin. Their mouths crushed together, and teeth none-too-gently nipped at Hattori’s lower lip, sending a thrill down his spine. Hattori caught the witcher’s jaw in his hand and held him in place while he took what he wanted, licked and suckled and nipped, egged on by the quiet hisses and moans Gaetan was dropping with increasing frequency.

The metal buckles of Gaetan’s armor scraped across the elf’s chest. “Wait,” Hattori managed, pulling back, “this, off.”

In response Gaetan pulled off chest strap that kept his swords in place, laying them carefully onto the table. He then went to take off the leather jerkin. Hattori batted his fingers away and then deftly undid the straps of the witcher’s chest armor himself, pulling each piece off and laying it next to the swords. Underneath the armor was a spiderweb of scars, healed slices and gouges and Hattori paused, greedily drinking in the sight. On the man’s rib cage was a perfect set of tooth marks, just a little too wide and deep to have been from a person. Hattori reached out the trace the circle of pucker marks then paused, looking at the witcher to gauge his reaction.

Gaetan nodded, leaning back on the table and leaving his torso on display. “Bruxa,” he said. “It’s a kind of vampire. A fucking awful kind.”

Hattori traced the sequence of pink divots with his thumb. Goosebumps spread out in a wave from the contact. Curious, he reached out to touch a flushed gouge mark further down, tracing the scars arching path from rib cage to right below the witcher’s belly button, directly above the line of his trousers.

“This looks more recent,” Hattori murmured, stroking the scar gently and watching Gaetan’s breathing speed up with each downward movement.

“Um,” Gaetan said, and rolled his head back, closing his eyes for a second. “A few months ago. Cockatrice.” He looked a pretty picture, spread out against the edge of Hattori’s table, his muscles flexing with each breath. The flame of the oil lamp flickered, casting shadows into the valleys between the witcher’s abdominal muscles, turning each scar into a deep cavern.

Hattori lowered his hand to the edge of Gaetan’s trousers and the witcher looked at him again, his eyes catching the light and shining it back at him, a ghostly blue reflection like one would see in an animal’s eyes.

“May I?”

“Gods yes,” Gaetan said quickly. “Fuck, if you don’t take ‘em off I’m liable to rip out of them.”

Hattori laughed, and ran his palm lightly over the outline of Gaetan’s hard length, his stomach tightening at the resulting high-pitched moan, and the hips that chased the pressure of his hand.

“Please,” the witcher said, but made no move to take them off himself. Instead he watched, lip clenched between his teeth, as Hattori undid the buttons and slowly, carefully, slid the trousers off the witcher’s hips.

To rid the witcher of his trousers necessitated kneeling, placing Hattori at mouth level with Gaetan’s erection, hidden behind a very thin layer of undergarment. Hattori looked up and made eye contact, then put his hands over the witcher’s, keeping them pressed into the table.

The witcher’s reaction as Hattori mouthed the head of his cock through his shorts sounded like someone had punched the wind out of him. Hattori’s own cock twitched hard at the sound. He sucked, and Gaetan’s hips jerked up for a second before he caught himself, pressing back into the table.

The elf grinned, and rewarded him by releasing Gaetan’s hands, pulling on the drawstring and tugging his shorts down. Gaetan’s cock sprang free to meet him, red and hot to the touch and slightly bitter-smelling. Hattori realized the witcher still had his damned boots on – and in the process of trying to completely strip the man, he found two daggers, one in each boot.

“Really?” he said, lifting an eyebrow as he pulled the second boot off.

“What?” Gaetan said, licking his lips. “Can’t be too careful. Never know when you could need extra.”

“You don’t right now,” Hattori said, pushing the daggers to the side and spreading Gaetan’s legs so he could better fit in between them.

“Ungh,” Gaetan said, voice caught between a gasp and a groan as Hattori’s lips closed around his cock. “Oh yes, can I, _please_ Éibhear, can I-“

Hattori tugged Gaetan’s hands to the back of his head. In truth, it had been a long time since he’d done this – and while the taste and the smell and the overwhelming nature of the act was just as good as he remembered, he’d gotten out of practice with watching his teeth and trying not to gag. Gaetan didn’t seem to mind, thrusting shallowly now that he’d been given permission, curses and praises spilling out of his mouth in equal measure.

“Fuck, fuck,” Gaetan muttered above him, fingers clenching in Hattori’s hair, “ah, gods, I knew – oh, _oh_ there – I knew you’d be, oh gods your _mouth_ , Éibhear, your fucking _mouth –_ ”

Éibhear tightened up his lips, lathing his tongue against the underside as Gaetan thrust in. The gasp that elicited had his eyes rolling back in his head. His own erection was rock-hard, almost unbearably so, and he reached down to adjust it.

Gaetan caught the motion and groaned so loudly that Hattori was sure his neighbors would hear it, and then unexpectedly Hattori’s mouth was flooded with bitter seed.

“Sorry,” the witcher gasped, his whole body flushed and glimmering with sweat. His hands were still tight in Hattori’s hair, and so Hattori simply swallowed it down, any irritation at the surprise immediately soothed by the incredibly gratifying full-body shiver the act pulled from the witcher.

“Ah,” Gaetan whispered, almost whimpered, and let go of Hattori’s hair. “Sorry. It’s, yeah it’s been a long damned while. Didn’t – I would have warned you if I’d known I was –”

Hattori kissed him hard, and the witcher shut up and kissed him back, hands scrambling for the edge of the swordsmith’s pants, fumbling at the buttons. A hand slid into Hattori’s pants, cupping his cock and then down to stroke his balls, and he thrust up into the witcher’s hand automatically, desperate for contact.

“You can,” Gaetan muttered against his mouth, then darted forward to catch Hattori’s earlobe between his teeth. Hattori whined embarrassingly at that, and what little blood had been circulating outside of his groin immediately fled south at the action.

“You can,” Gaetan said again, then finished, “you can fuck me if you want.”

If there was a more appealing image than the thought of the witcher spread out before him, riding his cock and writhing, with the lamp light reflecting from the backs of his eyes, Hattori didn’t have the slightest idea what it could be. “Yes,” he managed, “I, yes, please – if you want – “

“I want,” Gaetan confirmed, and licked a stripe up his neck. “Wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t.” The witcher’s fingers encircled Hattori’s cock and stroked it, thumb rubbing a circle just under the head. It turned out that sword calluses were immensely preferable to hammer calluses – or perhaps that was simply because they belonged to a hand that wasn’t his own.

Weak at the knees, the elf rested his head on the witcher’s shoulder, tilting so he could stare down at the other man’s hand moving inside his shorts.

“You’re big,” Gaetan said, sounding flatteringly impressed. “It’s been a while. Going to take a little bit of warm-up.”

Perhaps only image that could challenge the thought of Gaetan riding his cock was the idea of his slicked-up fingers riding in and out of –

“Ok,” Hattori agreed desperately.

Gaetan’s hand clenched tight around his cock then loosened, and Hattori barely managed to cut off a whimper at the loss. “I’ve got some slick,” the witcher said. “Just give me a second.”

Hattori distracted himself by sucking a bruise into the witcher’s neck – below the collar of course, he wasn’t an animal. He dimly heard the pop of a cork in the background and faintly smelled something herbal, and then Gaetan pulled his other hand out of the elf’s pants. This was a loss he noticed with far greater detail - and regretted, right up until he looked down to see Gaetan’s hand, glossy with lubricant, steadily prepping himself between them.

Hattori glanced up, and the look on Gaetan’s face – brow furrowed in concentration, bottom lip caught between his teeth – was enough to slam another wave of lust through him. But Hattori wanted to see the witcher unfold, so he pushed the man back and reached for the bottle. The lubricant was thick, and a faint green color that Hattori hoped didn’t mean anything dangerous – surely they weren’t going to fuck using some sort of monster-killing oil, though?

“It’s fine,” Gaetan said, as if he could read the elf’s mind. “I got it from the herbalist two streets over. The halfling.”

Hattori was not going to be able to look the halfling in the face for months now, but at least his cock wouldn’t be fit to kill a nekker. The elf slicked up his fingers quickly and then, with a nod from Gaetan, pressed a finger slowly up into the tight ring of muscle.

“Fuck,” Gaetan said, and moved to lean back – still on the kitchen table, Hattori remembered dimly, though he had rather more important things to concentrate one at the moment.

The warmth and constriction around his finger was almost unbearable – he’d forgotten how it always seemed like a miracle that anything larger could slide into such a space. But even in a short span he could feel Gaetan relax around him, and shortly after that he began pressing a second finger in, his cock throbbing with anticipation.

“Yeah,” the witcher declared approvingly, looking at Hattori through his lashes, “this is a much better idea. You – oh,” he moaned as the elf curled his fingers, “gods, Éibhear…”

“You’re beautiful,” Hattori said, because the witcher _was_ – he was all golden skin and scars and strength, stretched out onto Hattori’s kitchen table like a god. The man’s cock was hard again, bobbing against his stomach every time Hattori curled his fingers just so, and Hattori’s own erection was throbbing in sympathy.

“Come on,” Gaetan said, tugging ineffectually at Hattori’s arms without even a quarter of the strength that he could have mustered. “Don’t just tease me, come fuck me.”

Hattori grinned, and pushed the witcher down onto the table with his free hand. “Don’t be pushy,” he told the man, and slicked up a third finger.

“Fuck,” Gaetan said, collapsing back onto the table with a strange mix of lust and impatience. “Come on, Éibhear, not all of us live for hundreds of years, let’s fucking go already!”

“Mmm,” Hattori said, and licked a stripe up the witcher’s cock just to hear him curse. It was hard to resist the invitation, but he could feel the tension still lingering in the other man’s body, and while pain might be nothing to a witcher it was certainly something to Hattori – and he neither enjoyed experiencing it, nor causing it. He pressed the third finger in, and sucked lightly on the tip of Gaetan’s cockhead, forestalling any impatient complaints.

“Hattori,” Gaetan murmured, touching his hair, his ears, his face. “ _Éibhear_! Please, please fuck me – fuck, how hard do I have to beg – _oh, oh_ , gods that…”

Hattori scissored his fingers, stroking the spot that seemed to make Gaetan’s eyes roll back and drained the stubbornness from his limbs. When the other man had stopped his pleading, and Hattori’s fingers were moving in and out with minimal resistance, he finally pulled back and slicked his cock instead.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said.

“I’m not a virgin, fucking get in me,” Gaetan replied, his impatience having reappeared within seconds of Hattori’s hand retreating. “Gods damn it all, if you don’t fuck me now elf – “

Hattori slid home, and Gaetan’s words cut off with a moan, his legs wrapping around Hattori’s waist and tugging him deeper. It was incredibly, almost agonizingly tight, and Hattori saw stars at the edges of his vision. He paused to try to catch his breath and keep from coming like a teenager, and Gaetan surged up to kiss him, hands scrambling wildly on the skin of Hattori’s arms, his back.

Hattori shifted and gasped, feeling rather like his spine was melting. “You are so tight,” he groaned, unable to keep himself from thrusting just a little, inching back and forth just to feel the pull of it.

Gaetan kissed him again, and then there was a sudden whirl of movement and Hattori found himself on his back on the table. _Oh right_ , he remembered, the lazy fuck-me attitude of the man having fooled him into forgetting, _he’s a witcher._

“You’re too slow,” Gaetan said and began to move on top of him. Hattori helpfully thrust upwards to meet his strokes and after a moment of adjustment, Gaetan’s mouth went suddenly slack and he gave up cursing in favor of low, frantic groans.

Hattori had no choice but to slide his hands up Gaetan’s thighs and try to hold on. His whole body was tingling, perched on the edge of an orgasm he’d been craving practically since meeting the man two months prior. The spiraling heat in his groin indicated he wouldn’t be able to hold on for much longer and certainly not with Gaetan writhing on top of him, looking progressively closer to his own orgasm. Trying to stall for time Hattori reached out for the witcher’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.

It was a tactical error. The witcher clenched around him in response to the touch - and suddenly that wave uncoiled without Hattori’s permission or anticipation and he was coming as hard as a hammer blow, struggling to push deep as pleasure overwhelmed him.

“Fuck,” Gaetan grunted on top of him, and came all over Hattori’s chest and stomach. 

They lay there, panting, and eventually the room returned to full color and the table began to dig into Hattori’s thighs. It didn’t dull the low euphoric buzz that was running pleasantly through his limbs, or cause him to stop stroking the witcher’s back, who had collapsed forward immediately after orgasm and was now making pleased little humming sounds into Hattori’s ear.

“Just like a cat,” Hattori murmured, trailing his fingers gently behind the witcher’s ear.

 “Not as furry, though.” Gaetan gave him a sloppy, lazy kiss and then sat up. “So – dumplings?”

“What?” Hattori said, barely resisting the reflex to pull the witcher back down. “Are these truly not metaphorical dumplings?”

“Well, maybe there was a metaphor there… but there’s some entirely non-metaphorical potato and onion inside that bag over there.” As if to further punctuate the point, Gaetan’s stomach let out an audible growl.

“Oh, very well,” Hattori said, too full of post-coitus bliss to be anything other than charmed. Probably _too_ charmed, truth be told, but he’d never been particularly good at resisting the things that he wanted. “I will make you some corporeal dumplings as well, I suppose.”

“I’m sure your corporeal dumplings are just as good as your metaphorical ones,” Gaetan said, then grinned, “or at least I hope so because I am _damned_ hungry now, I’ve worked up quite the appetite. Where’s your knives? I’ll start cutting the potatoes.”

Gaetan helped him sit up and tucked a piece of hair behind Hattori’s ear, following it with a kiss that was surprisingly tender, for how little they knew one another. Hattori tried to force down the way his heart welled at the gesture.

The two tidied up, for Hattori was not about to make dinner in a kitchen that reeked so strongly of semen, and gently argued Gaetan into putting at least his underwear back on for propriety’s sake – _“whose propriety, Hattori, we’re alone in here!”_ – before beginning the soothing ritual of chopping and slicing. Well, somewhat soothing – he found that now that the sweat on his back was cooling, he didn’t quite know where to go from here. More importantly, he didn’t know where _Gaetan_ would go from here.

“So,” he said, nonchalantly, “you’ll be in town for a few days?”

“Yeah,” Gaetan said, and bumped him gently with his hip. “Know anywhere I could stay?”

The request was a relief. If an enjoyable evening was all they were to have then he could live with that, and savor it – but it wasn’t his preference.

“Perhaps,” Hattori said, feeling his ears heating up again. “I may have some extra room.”

“Oh yeah?” Gaetan said. “And how much does this extra room cost? Does it come with food?”

“I suppose we could come to an agreement,” Hattori said, his heart thrumming in his chest. “Some sort of exchange.”

“More crafting supplies?”

Hattori looked over, and saw that Gaetan was smirking at him. The corners of his eyes were crinkled, and his gaze was warm and unabashed.

“I was thinking other tasks,” Hattori said, letting himself smile back. “They might involve substantially more time horizontal than vertical, though.”

“Sounds good to me – I work too much on my feet, I could use some time on my back,” the witcher said, and wiggled his eyebrows.

The action startled a laugh out of Hattori, who subsequently nearly sliced off a finger. “Good,” he finally managed to get out, being a little more careful with the knife. “That’s good to hear.”

“So, when should I start?” Gaetan said, and his voice was unexpectedly close to Hattori’s ear. Hands crept around the elf’s waist, playing with the hem of his trousers.

“Weren’t you –” Lips pressed to the junction of his neck and shoulder. Hattori closed his eyes and leaned back into the other man’s touch, now grateful that Gaetan had argued them both out of putting shirts back on. “Weren’t you hungry?”

“Mm,” the witcher said, and reached down to cup him through his trousers. “I was. But now I’m hungry for something else. More… metaphorical dumplings, that’s what I’m really in the mood for. Besides, you haven’t shown me your bed yet, and I probably should get a sampler of what I’m going to be tied down to for the next couple of days.”

“Tied down to? I wasn’t- oh,” Hattori said, swallowing.

“Yeah, _oh,_ ” Gaetan agreed, and dragged him up the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> Hattori's dumplings bring all the boys to the yard?


End file.
